‘The land is generous. There is enough for everyone. Together we advance.’

WINSTON CHURCHILL, plaque near Auditorio Metro Station

Not far off five hundred years ago the Spanish, led by Hernán Cortés, conquered Tenochtitlan, the capital of the Aztec Empire.

Since that conquest, the painful birth of the mestizo people (see Tlatelolco), Mexico has continued to receive immigrants from far flung parts of the world. Read all about it here.

In a not incongruous way, around Auditorio Metro Station, the world, in various guises comes to Mexico – to mingle.

A replica of the Korean shrine where the Korean declaration of independence was read hides tranquilly in a far (eastern?) corner of Bosque de Chapultepec.

On the other side of the high fence, Pancho Villa, Mexican revolutionary hero, cries ‘see you in 2010’ and an abseiler descends in an advertisement for Chihuahua’s wondrous Barranca del Cobre (Copper Canyon).

The British, as they are wont to do, make their presence felt.

A statue of Winston Churchill, with an accompanying plaque referred to in this post preamble, boldly stands.

Lord Byron receives the honour of a street name.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

Of course, that Dutch beer is there – in gigantic billboard grandeur, somewhat akin to its worldwide market penetration.

I wandered into the ‘Centro Asturiano de México’ founded by immigrants from the Spanish autonomous region of Asturias in 1918.

There is currently a painting exhibition by Mexican artist Arturo Miranda Videgaray and a photography exhition by Juan Illescas.

Another cultural mesh.

I wandered on, marveled and wondered a moment at MP System‘s contraption (The future of parking now – so they claim), stopped to smell the roses and take in this catchy billboard sign.

I made it around to the showpiece of the area and the station’s namesake Auditorio Nacional (National Auditorium). As you can see from the photographs of the extensive walk of fame, numerous illustrious international and Mexican acts have graced the arena.

A real treat, an extensive photography collection of a who’s who of the rock and pop world by photographer Ebet Roberts awaited.

Photos of photos is a kind of weird subject area but I couldn’t stop snapping away. I don’t think the subjects need much introduction.

A good photo can give people a deeper dimension of an artist and their music.’EBET ROBERTS

Twenty four hours later than I had otherwise anticipated (see Hidalgo – yesterday) I made it, southwest-ish I guess, to San Pedro De Los Pinos.

Saint Peter of the Pine Trees.

What business Saint Peter had out in the pine woods I couldn’t tell you.

That may well remain an unsolved coniferous conundrum.

For some reason when I submerge to the immense depths of the orange line, (the deepest line) travel along to my chosen destination and disembark, a caprice overtakes me.

One moment I’ll be walking along calmly with everyone else, and then, with several moments of escalator pensiveness imminent, I find that I am instead rapidly ascending, with all force, a steep flight of parallel stairs.

Then another.

And then yet another looms.

Finally I retreat, huffing and puffing, to mechanical assistance.

Third time lucky. NO. Three’s a crowd.

Anyway finally in the open air and ‘OPEN SESAME!’, the whole gang is there – Grover, Elmo, Big Bird, Oscar.

The count! One. Two. Six.

Tacos de Canasta, basket-bound, bicycle-mounted, on a corner. Gulp a couple down (beans (frijoles) and potatoes (papas)).

Why not?

The Pizza Hut bikes are there.

They look shiny, ready to go. So, which? No orders or no drivers?

A woman drifts into focus – ‘Is there a metro station near here?’

‘Look, I’m well qualified to answer’ (extended spiel). Well, no.

Actually she instigated prolonged parlance. I played mere second fiddle to her batty banter.

In the wake of treading through the boneyards and beyond of Panteones on Saturday afternoon I felt I still had adequate kindling in my energy reserves to spark another visit so I zipped one stop down the line to Tacuba to make it a dual visit day.

One spark and see where it spreads; a wildfire, burning and engulfing flames, fanned by the dualistic crucial components.

Still on the interior of the station a series of paintings from Mexico City painter Rich Arnauda entitled ‘NANTLI’, which means mother in Nahuatl, flared up the visit.

Then outside wandering through I stopped to chat to Ernesto, working away at the collection of recyclable plastic bottles – yield just over five pesos (40c) a kilo.

The ‘Inspector de Culitos’ (Arse Inspector) opposite goes on with his work too – static insatiable travail.

Charros Condenados Frijoles. Condemned Mexican Horsemen Beans.

Fancy a can?

I felt my energy waning a little so I slid into the cantina ‘El Arsenal del Ferrol’ to rest a while and revel in the bar kicks and tall tales of a suburban dive.

I emerged renewed and contented.

Imagine not being able to afford your water bill only to have your dignity further kicked into subterranean shame by bold yellow stickers pronouncing it to the world.

Further on there was a blend of tea available for whatever ails you. Cure all your ills.

I opted for some chocolate instead.

After sidling past an image of Che, epitome of the new man, I came across my old friend who not only resembles old Ernesto but espouses similar politics as well.

Look familiar? Well, to me – yes!

My revolutionay artisan friend from the Cuitlahuac visit a few months again made a sequel cameo ably supported by a new wingman.

Finally I bade my farewell and shuffled off with some new crafts (purchased and gifted) in the hand, beer in the belly, joy in the mind, weariness in the bones and two more stations under the belt.

I widened the usual circumferential scope further than usual in today’s ambling and rambling around Mixcoac. I even drifted into San Antonio territory.

But, hey, it’s Sunday and the day may be suited more than any other to lengthy and unimpeded saunter.

From a plaque;

‘In the territory currently occupied by the Benito Juarez municipal district once dwelled the Mixcoac people, a Nahuatl name translating as ‘cloud serpent’ meaning ‘waterspout’ or ‘place where Mixcoatl is worshipped’, a God considered the father of the Anahuac peoples.’

I Wandered through the streetscapes of elaborate headdresses and tiger eyes, of Lee “Scratch” Perry Mad Professor and a curbside in bloom.

Edifice of faith and spiderweb concentricity of windscreen depression.

And then in the middle of the street and unexpectedly, like an apparition before my very eyes, I found Jesus.

Jesus in my life! An epiphany of faith, a realisation of the lacking creed of my existence.

The missing link.

Born again!

Actually, well, harrumph! No. No, no, no.

I met Jesus. Jesus the regular man. Man of today.

Flesh and blood and bones. Cuticles and spectacles.

In fact, Jesus was just going about his regular business, selling didactic cards window to window as the roar of traffic dulls to a whimpering halt at the stipulation of semaphoric red.

Later I came to the entrance of the world’s largest bullring, ‘Plaza México’.

Loitering at the entrance were the security guards and they offered me safe passage into the inner depths of the arena for a few ‘beer coins’ so I trundled on in and stood agog at the lofty peaks to peer down at the empty arena devoid of picadors, matadors and goring bulls.

So, this afternoon I left the proletariat and plebeians behind and toddled off to hobnob with the well-to-do haute bourgeoisie in the affluent and immaculate boulevards and avenues of plenteous Polanco.

I probably should rephrase that. Truthfully.

I caught the metro to Polanco, got off and walked around as ever and observed, as ever, whilst the hoity-toity hobnobbed with, well, each other.

Damn! I have never seen so much topiary or miniature potted trees!

Actually the streets of Polanco are a very different Mexico and a very different Mexico City.

It’s all just so orderly, florally-adorned, too clean.

The five star hotels rise in the sky. The Hard Rock Cafe stars of tribute lie on the pavement below.

The Polanco Sculptural Park is a nice enough place to pass some time. The aviary there is closed but there is no avoiding the cheeping exposure.

Polanco is a district of embassies too but the only one that I came across today (well, noticed anyway) was the El Salvadorean embassy.

The hoi Polloi are there too, sprinkled amongst the mix; sweeping the street, for example.

However, all in all, Polanco is a place where the rich predominate and as the great Bob Dylan (playing in Mexico City this Friday and Saturday incidentally) says ‘money doesn’t talk, it swears.’

The name comes from a ravine that used to exist in the area where corpses were reportedly thrown during the years of the Mexican Revolution.

The station symbol of two eagles apparently is due to the presence of eagles in the area at this time, attracted by decomposing cadavers.

Moving on to more pleasant themes, Spring has certainly arrived to Mexico City and purple-flowered Jacaranda trees are in blossom all over the city.

The fringes of cobbled streets to the east of the station are no exception.

In the area there are also a number of stately homes hidden behind imposing fences and even at least one hacienda – ‘La Rosaleda’.

A security guard told me it is one of the few haciendas that still remain within Mexico’s Federal District.

I walked through Plateros Park and was looping back to the station thinking that a human element to the visit was lacking.

It was then that I heard what I am only (far) too accustomed to hearing – the ubiquitous ‘güero!’.

(I’m thinking of changing my name to make it that little bit more personal)

Beck knows what it’s like.

I swung around to see the combination of an exhausted man sitting on the pavement with his bundle.

After the obligatory acquainting period and some chat (broom-making, gardening, antique cars) we got down to the serious business of the photo shoot and an all too willing participant Juan was. He came right back to exuberant life.

Standard shot – a man and his bundle.

Sans shirt for the muscle shot.

Hoisted to the shoulder – working man in motion.

With that done and dusted it was back to the station and a violin solo drew the curtains on the visit to Barranca Del Muerto.